


Unpreventable

by Dissonance



Series: The Long-term Effects of Possession [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Death is only the beginning, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Mutilation, Non-Canonical Violence, Paranoid Personality Disorder, Post-Nogitsune, Self-Hatred, Stiles Stilinski Is Bad at Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissonance/pseuds/Dissonance
Summary: One door opens and another closes; the longing for a parasite drives nails into the brain. Alone and abandoned in a dark, empty pit, there is no other way to go than down.He is dead, but he is reborn. Consequences follow in the gaunt manifestation of irreversible change.[ continuation of inescapable, can be read separately & previously titled "give me back the night" ]





	1. We Will Commit

**Author's Note:**

> your dumb boy is back with another story about another dumb boy

It wasn’t unfamiliar to feel the absence of breath on his tongue, the constricting of his lungs, the aching of his neck. But it was unfamiliar to not be able to move. His elbows hit the padded sides of a small, tight box, head laying on a small satin pillow, mere inches from another side of whatever he was in. Beginning to sit up, his head quickly connected with the top of this cage, sending him back down against the soft, smooth inner lining. Panic quickly filled his mind as he banged uselessly upward with his fists, releasing he was sealed in, alone, ignorantly sucking in the limited dusty air in this small, constricted space. He tried to turn onto his side, sticking his fingers into the small distinguishable crevice where the lid met the top of the box, pushing, pulling with all his might, arms screaming from the strain and the awkward position. Finally, however, he lifted it a smidge, and soil began to pile in.

Scared and unaware of where he was, Stiles knew the only way out was up. On the verge of throwing up, he dug his fingers into the thick dirt, taking one last gulp of dry air before pushing up through. The edge of the box fell hard on his back as he wiggled out, blind, deaf, mute, grasping at thin rocks and endless earth. Up, up, up, digging until he couldn’t take it anymore, lips parting, begging for air, mouth filling with loam and heart beating sporadically. His skull felt like a balloon filling with blood, ready to pop, needing air, air, _air-_

Suddenly, his hand burst through roots and his bare fingertips felt nothing but a cool breeze.

With a renewed splash of adrenaline, he pulled his body upward, gasping for breath once he reached the surface. It was hard to lug himself out of the dirt, sucking him downward, but he knew it was possible. Digging his fingers into the grass, he felt his waist become loose, free, then his thighs, knees, and feet. His shoe almost slipped off as the soil curled in on itself, filling in the space he had appeared from. Out of confinement, his body lay almost motionless, breathing heavily with his face pressed to the windblown, yellowing blades across the ground. He found it hard to relax once his brain registered the situation he’d just come out of; stuck in a what now registered in his brain as a coffin underground, abandoned, forced to crawl his way out of the earth like a panicked worm.

Opening his eyes, another simple, dreadful realization drifted through his mind; he shouldn’t have been breathing.

In front of him was the back of a gravestone, square shaped and smooth. He pushed himself onto his knees, crawling to the front, reading the inscription. He would’ve cringed at the convoluted writing of his real name, but he couldn’t find it in him to care about that bothersome detail, at least for now. This was _his_ gravestone- marking his burial, marking his _death_.

_Am I a ghost?_

His question was answered for him; the marble stone was shiny and reflective, illuminated by the light of the moon, and in it, he saw himself. It seemed he had been originally dressed in a neat, tightly tailored suit, which now was tattered and dirty from his rabid climb to the surface. His hair was a mess and his skin was its usual fair pallor, but decorated with familiar pale markings. His heart quickened in a shudder as he recognized familiar claw marks raking up his neck and jaw, shortest slash ending just under his lip. Not raw, open and oozing, but healed. Same with the messy swollen cuts on his neck, and supposedly, everything else.

Ghosts didn’t have scars. Ghosts just had permanent reminders of what had killed them, always there, bloody and dripping onto the ground below. Ghosts didn’t heal.

His hands hastily met with his chest, unbuttoning the coat, the undershirt below, eyes widening in fervent trepidation at the deep scarred tissue in the shape of a thin but fatal puncture just below his sternum, flesh impossibly intact, like he hadn’t been crudely skewered from behind. The afterlife claiming him, giving him dancing images of a better life, unburdened and-

_Wait._

“Hello?” Stiles called, vocal chords straining like taunt guitar strings. A cough wormed its way up his mouth, sending him bent over in front of his own grave. He sniffled and felt a shiver pass his spine, waiting, silent. When he received no response, no poisonous tendrils curling around his limbs or feelings overpowering his own, a confusion sensation tickled through his sanity. He knew what this silence meant, but he didn’t feel good like he thought he would. He didn’t feel bad, either. He just felt.. nothing. A faulty response to the lack of something that he’d finally accepted as permanent.

Cold fingers trailing over the peculiar, discolored lines down the bottom of his face, he breathed a sharp exhale, throat still aching like he’d swallowed sandpaper. He went to stand before a subtle, unmistakable sound reached his ears -- the crinkle of dry grass being crushed underfoot, slow, short steps coming from somewhere to the left.

Heart, previously calmed, quickly returned to a terrified, panicked pace. He made a mad dash passed his grave and into the near treeline, tripping face-first over a rotting branch tethered to the ground. Thankfully his fall didn’t make much noise, and he was able to recover quickly, tossing himself back onto his knees. He stumbled to peek over a mottled, spiky bush, spying on whoever had come to visit him.

Two figures, close together, wandered almost aimlessly down the path. In the dull moonlight he could just make out a feminine, shorter silhouette, and another, their hands tightly intertwined. The taller figure was holding something in his hand, but despite Stiles’ best efforts he couldn’t make it out.

“That one,” the taller blurted, his voice familiar and quiet, not a tone Stiles had been expecting. The woman unhooked her hand from what he could assume was her brother and strolled over to the nearest grave, falling onto her knees right next to the rectangular stone.

A flashlight clicked on and he watched the siblings, now mostly visible, both sit down in front of his gravestone. “So that’s his real name,” the older one muttered, his voice slightly agitated, but smooth, with a rough running edge. The tone struck a chord with Stiles, and he felt himself become fully invested, curious but vaguely worried, heart aching at the gruff similarities with someone he held dear. “You remember what he did for you?”

One of the girl’s fingers rubbed hard against the words amongst the stone, tracing each letter, a look of remorseful gratefulness decorated across her boyish features. “I do,” she answered quickly, frowning. Stiles waited for the girl to elaborate, but she never did, just sat there, her hands sitting softly on the top of his grave. Her brother settled next to her, crossing his legs, revealing what he’d been holding.

“He deserves this,” he muttered, almost too quiet for Stiles to hear. “Poor kid didn’t deserve what he got,” he placed what were now visible as three sole flowers on the ground, a melancholy look in his brown eyes. The petals were round and dark, a vivid sangria, akin to the color of pooled blood. Slightly lighter filaments shot up in a line around the pistil, curling inwards as if to protect what was inside, anthers a dull pink. Gently, he nudged them against the edge of the grave, the velvet petals rubbing upon the marble. “I thought there’d be more flowers. Or at least another bundle.”

“There will be after school tomorrow,” the girl stated plainly, a sigh on her lips. “Today’s the day when they’re finally gonna address the student body,” she cleared her throat, turning toward the boy next to her. “The staff is gonna explain what happened so people don’t joke anymore.”

“Makes me fucking sick,” he spat, that same familiar anger lacing his words. “Kid tried to kill himself, gets almost murdered by a serial killer, and then dies from a fuckin’ bear attack in the woods. There’s nothin’ anyone should be laughing about.”

“I guess, maybe his luck?” she suggested softly, letting a finger pet the delicate chocolate blooms they’d brought for him. Stiles bit his lip in indignation, at the mention of his luck, how in any way that could be seen as funny. “I can see how they could find it funny how horrible his luck was, but I guess, that’s not what people are um.. Talking about.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long, solemn silence after that, before the two stood wordlessly and left in a similar fashion to how they arrived. Stiles was still in relative shock to everything he’d just witnessed; he _knew_ that girl. And she knew him; she knew what had happened.

He _had_ died. Or he’d thought, because now reality set deep in his brain, that he’d woken up buried in a coffin, deep in a grave, forced to claw his way six feet up through the ground. And that didn’t sound like death.

 

 

It didn’t take that long to walk home, with him internally confused at the overabundance of space in his mind, the lack of outside input. Alone to think, not to talk, to delay what his head wanted to wander upon. Filled with thought, it felt like mere minutes, despite the sky rapidly lightening. He didn’t know how safe he was, why he was alive, or how his father would react, if he even _wanted_ his dad to see him. How would he explain himself? Did he even know how his son had died? He had to have, if reports went out that he’d been mauled by a bear.

The door was locked when he tried it, the handle refusing to budge at his attempts. He glanced around him, making sure no one was out, to see him dressed in a torn and stained suit, looking like a funeral attendee that had been chucked off a cliff.

Stepping off the stoop, he headed around the side of his home, spying the window on the second floor glaring back at him. Wrapping his fingers around the small outcrop that served as his way inside, he went to pull his body, taking advantage of the familiar path he’d used to escape before with.

Unexpectedly, halfway into feeling much more strain in his muscles than before, his hand slipped and he found himself slammed back onto the ground. His head spun for a moment but he managed to choke back any verbal output, the grass rigid and harsh underneath his palms. Climbing was incredibly harder than before; insanely harder.

A hole settled in his chest. He was lacking the extra strength he’d been gifted by his demon.

With renewed, spiteful vigor, that he could do this by himself, Stiles stood up and began to climb the wall again. He almost tumbled back down several, scary times, but in the end his fingers met with the windowsill of his window. He spat out a hiss of victory and unsteadily pulled the glass pane open, grasping the edges hard enough to lug himself inside. Sill up to his chest, he stared into his room, ready to go in and bask at the glory of not needing the demon, only to pause at what met his eyes.

Himself, but not him. His gaze was vacant of their usual gleam and a dull violet aura drifted over his person, like a sharp, purple sheen. Him, but not him. It. It sat there with a knife in it’s hand, rubbing its fingers along the dull edges, wiping away small red particles, a grin on its face, before it turned, their eyes interlocking.

This time he _did_ fall.

The ground hit much harder than before, and he felt his shoulder momentarily pop out of place, before being unceremoniously shoved back in. A scared, quick swear echoed from his mouth, body curling around on the ground like a wounded worm. An inhuman fear settled in his stomach, eyes reluctantly opening, terrified to see someone, leaning over the window, waiting.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he whispered, hands shaking. A primal sensation tickled up his spine and he, without hesitation, threw himself onto his feet and sprinted toward the treeline once again, a coward’s move. He wanted to be back in his bed but he couldn’t go in there -- no, he couldn’t. There was something wrong with his room, something wrong with his head, his eyes. They couldn’t have split into two different entities again, there was no way. He had died, _won_ , only to be brought back, and the Nogitsune _couldn’t_ have followed. He didn’t feel the connection, his energy being sapped to fuel a fake being, not like before.

Collapsing next to a tree, Stiles breathed heavily, letting his eyes flitter eastward and to the rising sun. A shiver stuck to his frame as he looked around the oak’s shade, back toward the line of houses that was his neighborhood. Waiting, pupils mere pinpricks, for something to happen.

_Please. Please no, not again._

Heavy breathing, the rustle of tree leaves, the chatter of sparrows.

Nothing?

Breaths still uneven and and shoulders shivering, rationality finally decided to return to him. There was no one there, was there? He tried to remember the days after the hospital, everything that had been said to him; it wasn’t real, the demon, that parasite was gone. This time, there was no way it wasn’t the truth. There was no way around it; still sore in his mind, the memory of crawling out of his own grave reminded him of this fact. He _had_ died, the fact unable to be sugar-coated. He’d died, mutilated and bloody, at the hands of his friends, his family, and the Nogitsune had died with him.

It still took him a good while to get himself breathing steadily again, to push himself off the ground and stand there stupidly, dressed in a torn, dirty suit, not knowing what to do next.

So, like anyone who’d just come back from the dead, he walked forward, no real destination on his mind.

Leaves and twigs cracked under his previously shiny shoes, now dirtied with soot and soil. Birds, not yet having left in dread of winter, sang against the breeze, their voices eager and insightful, indicting feelings he didn’t yet know how to recognize. The trees around him creaked with age, their branches swaying, brown, crinkled leaves barely keeping a hold among the soft wind. Every once in a while, the keen cawing of a crow or raven echoed through the crisp autumn air, each unprovoked shout causing a shudder to pass through his muscles. The loud, sudden calls made his neck itch and his spine tingle; uncomfortable, anxious… fearful?

His footfalls stopped when he spotted one of the dark, avian creatures pecking absentmindedly on a rotted tree trunk ahead of his makeshift path. Something inside of his heart felt wrong, mushy and heavy. His fingers were incredibly cold, and he held them together, swallowing thickly at the sight of this bird, before taking a step forward.

The crow stopped and, instead of flying off like expected, turned toward Stiles, an omniscient glint in its knowing black eyes. The gaze of this bird made his heart begin to batter against his chest, and he watched as it cocked its head, feathers ruffled, unnerved. Equally as perturbed as him.

Without warning, the creature open its beak and let out an ear-splitting, hostile caw. Alarm bells exploded into his head and and his heart jumped into his throat, body instinctively stumbling back a few feet. Then, the bird took off, racing into the sky, completely out of sight in only a few seconds.

The cawing of crows stopped after that.

 

 

Thunder mumbled across the doleful sky, clouds turning a desolate grey, like dark, sullen cinders, leftover from a fire. Stiles felt the storm like he’d felt the feelings of the bird; deep, uneasy apprehension, the atmosphere growing taunt and tense. His back felt hot, like eyes followed his form from every direction, footsteps seeming to join his own every other minute. He couldn’t help the panic that began to settle over his heart, as rain began to batter the canopy above; why had he walked so far out into the middle of nowhere, alone, unable to defend himself from whatever there may be?

Droplets began to spatter against his back, soaking through the greasy waves of his unkempt hair. He tucked his fingers into the small, smooth pockets of his pants, eyes wide and alert, watching the darkening sky, clouds disregarding the time of day. He felt so- so _alone_ ; like an abandoned soul left to rot. The rabid loneliness raked up his arms, digging into his chest with renewed, unsettling vigor. That, along with the fear that weighed on his mind and his rapidly soaking clothes, was the reason he believed the shape of a structure in the distance was simply his starved imagination, a mirage emerging in a last attempt to calm his mind. But, as he approached, the figure grew in size, more detailed than his mind could ever spend on anything positive.

A shred of hope shined on him and he rushed forward, an urgentness taking hold of his limbs. He found the place familiar, and quickly realized why. The hope grew as he reached the door, throwing it open and stomping across dusty wooden planks without thought.

The smell of ashes met his nose, the rain and thunder falling to a dull roar against the tattered roof of the old, burned Hale House.

Rain seeped from different places in the ceiling still unharmed enough to attain water damage. He stood there, still, feeling incredibly out of place; this unexpected shelter was a blessing, yes, but being inside, after months, maybe even years, drove a certain feeling through his stomach.

Wet and shivering, Stiles moved toward the stairs, taking a seat and listening to the charred wood creak. He was incredibly cold, the feeling hard and indescribable, starkly new. When his demon had been with him, he hadn’t minded the cold at all; instead, he relished in it, found power in the numbness of his fingers and coolness of his skin. The effect, now, was distinctly worse. He could feel the cold like it was eating away at his bones, a persistent shake traveling from his toes to his neck. A sniffle began to manifest in Stiles’ already ragged breathing, and he coughed, trying to clear his throat while also keeping his hand tucked securely under his arms, the minimal warmth somewhat comforting. It was better than nothing, of course; anything was better than nothing.

“ _Shit_ ,” Stiles hissed to himself, a disconcerting, maniacal feeling building up inside of his heart. An urge to do _something_ filled up his lungs and he swallowed, fingers grasping at the smooth, dusty edges of the expensive overcoat clinging tightly to his frame. He was dead. He was dead. This was all _wrong_ \- he was _wrong!_ They’d buried him; they’d moved on. Maybe they were better off. But _they_ had also killed him- ended his life without a word.

His mind switched between hatred, regret, and terror faster than he could process. Soon he was gasping for breath, his hands folding over his ears, the desperate need for warmth returning to him without remorse. He was so cold, so _stiff_ , a dead body reanimated, blood freezing and head spinning, useless, _alone-_

The sudden _bang_ of thunder send Stiles leaping to his feet, a panicked yelp sounding from his mouth, the sounds interrupting his manic thoughts. He caught purchase along the smooth railing of the stairs, muscles tense as another rumble rang through the thin walls, the ground seeming to shake, shiver like his bones underneath his feet.

“No, no, _no_ ,” he muttered, senseless, terrified. Clinging to the cylindrical engravings of the railing, he fell to his knees, shoving his head into his chest, desperately trying to block out the noises of the storm. The irregular ideas replaced themselves with a pure, violent desire to get away, but he couldn’t pry himself off from the railing, couldn’t move from this protective position. Something primal urged him to run, to escape, like a sixth sense he couldn’t put a finger on. And, with another flash and boom of the sky’s thunderous rage, it started to feel much warmer.

That instinctual sensation was too powerful for his terror to shield him from it any longer; his eyes removed themselves from the ground and landed on the ceiling, far above, the wood glowing, being eaten away-

His heart leapt into his throat and he jumped away, landing roughly away from the stairs, structure now collapsed entirely by the burning plank lying in its midst. The already unstable house was crumbling, burning again, the potential shelter ruthlessly ripped from his grasp. Without thought he flew out the front door, the rain meeting his face like a vengeful slap. He aimed to leave, to run, to get as far away as possible, but was paused at the peculiar creatures flying frantically out of the house’s smoking orifices. Crows. They’d made their home in that shell of a building, the one now crumbling to the ground. Fear shone in their onyx, glinting eyes as they struggled to get away. Some flew to blend between the puffs of dark grey smoke, only for the fowls to drop lifelessly out of the plume. Falling at his feet, still like stone, like stuffed birds meant for display.

Mud and brown, tattered leaves stuck to his shins as he scrambled away, curling up in a ball amongst the sodden soil. His ears rang as the fire, too intense and too hot, disregarded the power of the storm, the blaze impenetrable against the pummelling of rain. Untouchable, vigorous as it destroyed, dancing like ferns in the breeze. Divine in its actions.

He cried.

 

 

“I burned down a house,” he whispered softly to himself, sitting at the edge of a puddle, staring down at his ashen face. The ground was soggy from the night before, but he didn’t shy from sitting, cupping his hands in the opaque liquid below him. He splashed it over his features, balling his sleeves as a makeshift towel. It barely did anything for his complexion; only smeared the cinders and dirt around, hiding in the crevices of his face and decorating his cheeks with distasteful smears. Definitely not worth the shock of the water’s chill.

He sat back, leaning on the palms of his hands. “I re-destroyed _his_ house,” he uttered distastefully, staring up at the mottled, cloudy sky. “I burned it down to the ground.”

Of course, he knew it hadn’t been him himself who burned down the house; the lightning had. The freak storm. But something led Stiles to believe that the storm was his fault; his faulty luck that everyone found so pitifully funny. Even when it had gotten him killed; apparently, mauled by a bear.

He rolled his eyes with an absent mind, barely thinking about how he must’ve looked. It wasn’t like anyone was around, or would be around any time soon. He was practically lost in the nature preserve, having run as far away from the smoke billowing from the trees as he could. He was surrounded by woodland for miles around, the only inhabitants being him and a bundle of woodland creatures; squirrels, rabbits, maybe a speckling of deer, but definitely no people -- or, one could hope.

“I mean, I’m in the middle of nowhere, out of place, without any particular reason. Who’s to say other people aren’t too?” he spoke to himself, rubbing a piece of dry grass in between the pads of his fingers. He sighed, eyelids heavy.“Well, it’s not like many others are in my distinct predicament.” the response rolled off his tongue easily, and he fell into the comforting grasp of a conversation.

“Like, there could be someone out there, right now, staring at me,” he nodded toward the trees, increasing the volume of his voice, as if to alert anyone doing exactly what he said that he caught them red handed. “If someone’s gonna kill me, do it. I don’t know about you, but death doesn’t really seem to want to stick with me.”

Bird song drifting aimlessly along the breeze.

“Shouldn’t you guys’ have left already?” he called, catching sight of a small, plump finch tiptoeing across a short branch a few trees to the left of him. “It’s cold for me. I can’t imagine how cold it is for you.”

The bird cocked its small, red-twinged head in his general direction, its beak opening to let out a few delightful seconds of joyful chitter. He felt a smile play on his face, pleased at the reaction, especially compared to- to others. Like the birds flying desperately through the broken windows, only to end up mangled on the yellowed yard stretching out before his feet.

The smile was gone, and so was the small, plump finch. In its place was a large, jet black crow, its head cocked at him, almost mockingly.

Suddenly Stiles didn’t want to be alone.

He quickly pushed himself off the dirt, away from the filthy puddle pooled at his feet, turning his back toward the creature and marching the other way. He had to have been hallucinating. Like De- yeah, like he had said all those times.

Hallucinating birds. Hallucinating demons. Hallucinating-

Hallucinating fire?

Dead set on finding out, Stiles took off the direction he arrived in. Initially afraid of the bird on the branch, he was now driven by curiosity; had all of that been some sort of psychotic, hallucinogenic episode? Had the intensity of the storm been increased because of his head? Had it just been rain, lots and lots of rain, pattering down calmly on his back?

Was he really just crazy?

 

 

He was hoping he was crazy.

Instead, he was met with the remnants of firefighters, those intense ones that come by plane, that fly over forest fires and put them out with dyed water. California was notorious for its wildfires _and_ its force to stop them; he had been an idiot to expect nothing.

The blaze had been out for awhile. Smoke still drifted lazily off the crisp, ghostly structure of a once mostly intact building, but there were no flames. The trees around were black and ashen, the fire having spread a good one hundred feet around the house. Nervously, he crept through the now nonexistent foliage, back down and stance defensive.

The few firefighters he’d seen before were now gone, having left via something that he hadn’t spotted. Nervousness ate away at his stomach lining and he swallowed, peeking anxiously from behind one of the tall, dead trees. Dead birds still lied against the grass, invoking an invasive, sickening feeling throughout his bloodstream, a ticking time bomb set haphazardly in his head. A nerve twitched and his fingers itched, lungs burned.

He stepped out from the treeline, an irony taste sitting on the tip of his tongue, his footsteps echoing like the soft dripping of blood against the pavement. Vapor floated idly in the air, swirling up his nostrils, drifting aimlessly down his throat. He inhaled it greedily, illogical shapes forming in the forefront of his eyes, coaxing him, warning him. The black bird was at his feet.

His hand shook as he crouched down, breaths quick and quiet, simultaneously aware and ignorant of the impulsive orders fogging his judgement. His fingers brushed against the soft feathers of the creature he had watched die and the ticking grew louder, the empty hole left in his head momentarily filled with static and the senseless ticking, his vision growing dim, overcast with a dull violet.

Hollow bones cracked in his grasp. He closed his eyes, a warm, sudden feeling scattering amongst his nerves. Tendons stretched and snapped, cartilage bent and split, blood coming slow and lazy. There was no driving force, no heartbeat to pump it out. Already dead, gone, akin to the very hands pulling it apart.

Swallowing thickly, he let himself drift deeper into that warm, grey area, fingers meeting the hard surface of a beak. He secured it tightly and pulled, feeling the skull fracture and break, thin skin squelching as it ripped and pulled against gaunt bone.

When he felt his lips stretch happily into a smile and a choked, uncontrolled giggle dribble from his mouth, the facade shuddered to a halt. The warmth flew from his limbs and shocked regret rushed into his brain. His eyes were open but unfocused, barely seeing the dead, newly mangled bird strung across his hands. He blinked, breathing faster, a gag on his lips.

Blood was splattered across his palms, red soaking his finger tips.

“Wh-” he sputtered, the realization of what was going on finally setting securely in his brain. The ticking halted, hole in his brain present and empty once more, painful. “What did I..?” Resentfully, he tossed the remains of the fowl as far away as he could manage, his earlier pleased expression overtaken by repulsive disgust.

What had he just done, and why had it felt- felt _good?_

“That’s s-supposed to be gone. It was supposed to leave with- with it.”

His hand drifted up to the single slit in his neck, the four markings snaking up his jaw, a different feeling now washing over his person. Acute acrimony and malefic animosity swelled through his veins, a doleful shiver dancing up his spine.

“Why does it feel good?”


	2. Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Live, laugh, love- puke.  
> Man, that shit really doesn't work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if im ever gonna continue this, but i managed to finish off what i had already (took me months to write something so badly written and short) so here you go i guess.
> 
> reasons i most likely won't continue this:  
> lack of motivation  
> disinterested in the teen wolf fandom  
> can barely remember details from the show cause i havent watched it in almost a year
> 
> again sorry. its unexcusable how bad this is, but i dont want to leave it hanging. merry late christmas.

It became routine to sit by the puddle near the fallen maple, to re-familiarize himself with the ghost reflected in the murky water. He refused to dip his hands in, choosing instead to tuck them between his legs, to try and revive the sense in his fingertips. It was still unbearably cold outside. An unfamiliar, harsh chill. He didn’t know what day, what month it was-- so he couldn’t gauge if this was simply a cooler day in December or something else entirely. 

Whenever it was, he had been gone long enough for the trees trade out their vibrant colors for a faded, sullen brown, despite the branches still clinging onto their leaves. Enough already littered the ground, crunching underneath his shoes as he made his way around. He had kicked them from where he sat, but a few still floated across the motionless waters, edges curling up in the crude shapes of figures beyond. Like a person laying with their back to ice, their arms and legs directed toward the sky.

Without much coherent thought, he plucked one from the puddle and held it in his hands, feeling the material crush under his grasp. The broken remains shuddered out of his grasp and sailed back toward the ground.

He did not feel anything.

Instead, only a sigh trailed from his lips, his eyes focusing on the red smears decorating his skin, stained deep into the grooves of his fingers. An ebony feather danced through his mind, igniting unwanted sensations beneath his flesh. 

Monstrous.

 

As the sun began to set behind the old grey clouds, he found sitting and staring at himself wasn’t as favorable as he’d first thought. The scars raking through soft skin made him feel vaguely nauseated, and the sight of his face - dirty, shadowy, spectral - only made him desire, yearning to be the person he was before. But other than that, it _was_ becoming dark, dark enough to feel like maybe _something_ was lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting to break the facade and take him indefinitely. The previous monster of unknown origin quickly changed into a view of his demon, telling him possession was permanent, and that he needed it, that he was weak without it. He knew that this wasn’t a lie, wasn’t a trick or an insult. Human-Stiles was nothing more than an idiot, a nervous teenager with skinny arms and a lacking fight response. He should’ve been killed ages ago, judging by the type of people he called his friends, the dangerous ones that told him he was worth it; that even though he was just a human, he was pack.

Yes, it had been dangerous, and they’d protected him until they couldn’t, until a weed grew in his subconscious, sucking the life out of many they loved. They’d protected him when he had finally gotten the courage to eliminate it, to gather supplies and end it on the very roof he’d taken lives under. But, he’d been stopped, protected once again, kept from ridding himself of it. But after all, it had turned the way they’d been promised, with pain; the flowers were dead and the only things left were the violent tendrils of the oppressive weeds. They had curled around his limbs, his hands, taking hold and teaching him to do terrible things. 

His heart ached as the visualization changed to a much different hold on his wrist, to harsh water washing over dark wounds. A gentle, sweet touch, only to be broken by the painful sting of longing.

_God, I miss them._

He missed Scott, he missed Lydia, Kira, and even Isaac. He missed his dad, he missed school, he missed words and conversation. He missed who he used to be, and he missed- he missed _him._ So much he couldn’t even bring himself to think his name, let alone speak it. That same longing sat pulsing in his heart, to see them again, all of them, to go back to when it was normal and he wasn’t a killer, a monster hiding behind innocence, a malicious farce.

He missed them so, so much, but he couldn’t go back to them. He didn’t deserve a warm embrace, their words, he didn’t even deserve the time of day. He was a monster that had taken lives, gutted kids, skinned women. The only thing he deserved was for the same things to happen to him.

After chaos and a garden overgrown, they’d finally cut the weed, seeing it bleed out from the wounds they’d inflicted, much too many and many too deep to mend. He vividly remembered the feeling of his own lungs filling with fluid, gurgled blood, drowning on himself. He could only cling to the fact that he’d be taken soon, that the end was near, only for some remorseless power to throw him over, sending him out to drown himself once more. Alone, in the dead of night, buried, forgotten by- by _everyone._ Either a joke or an afterthought, an annoyance you no longer had to keep in mind. He was only greatly remembered  
indirectly-- simply as an unnamed killer, the unknown Identity they’d never caught, the same man who killed a girl and hung up her flesh like christmas decorations.

A familiar nauseation revisited his stomach and he fought back a shiver, the torn overcoat doing nothing to ward off the cold. He wanted to rip it off. Some funeral director had undoubtedly dressed him in it, had touched him, had seen all of the injuries and long lost scars, the blood splatters hidden by soap and makeup. It wasn’t his and it felt grossly foreign on his body, thin like linen and heavy like a weight. 

He needed different clothes, but he didn’t have any money nor the nerve to steal from someone else, so that left him one simple option.

Last time he was there, he’d seen the Nogitsune, or what his brain had seen as the Nogitsune. A hallucination brought up by past traumas, he was sure of it, but the knowledge still couldn’t shake the apprehension clinging to him like a second skin. That and the fact that he didn’t know who was there, if they could sense him, or if he would be seen. 

He knew he wanted to see his dad. He wanted to apologize for-- _for dying, I suppose,_ he thought unhelpfully. He knew he wanted to see everyone else as well, but he’d made up his mind that that wasn’t going to be possible. He’d come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t burden them with himself.

Still, making his way up to the door of his own home while the sun set ominously behind him was absolutely terrifying. He made sure to hurry, to sprint across the street and duck his head, hiding his scarred, albeit recognizable face. Neighbors knew him well, as did most of the adults in Beacon Hills, and he didn’t want any reports going out about a boy rising from his grave like they were in some straight-to-DVD zombie movie. They wouldn’t know, at least not until they found the hole in the soil and dug up the empty coffin. It would be a waste for someone to realize he wasn’t dead because of some stupid, easily avoidable mistake.

He reached his lawn in under a minute, but even then it felt faster. He spotted a car in the driveway, but it wasn’t his dad’s, nor any of the pack’s. It was his, his long forgotten Jeep. He’d never been told where his father had stored it, even after he allegedly recovered from the rooftop. He really didn’t have the time to focus on the whereabouts of a car when, at the moment, he had been slowly converted into a killer. Thinking of it now, a car might’ve helped in his exploits, but he couldn’t dwell on the fact any longer; he’d been standing there long enough, gaping at the vehicle, in the line of sight of anyone who happened to peek out their window. He needed to get in there, steal clothes, and leave. That was the extent of his plan; he hadn’t had the courage to look any further into the future. 

Wiggling the doorknob, this time he found it unlocked, the familiar weight somewhat relaxing as the wood creaked open. He didn’t hear any reaction to his arrival; no shuffling from afar, no footsteps pausing in their tracks, but then again he wasn’t a superhuman with super senses like his friends. Nonetheless, he was not in favor of useless dramatics, so he popped inside, making sure to shut the front door softly. You know, just in case his beginning observation had been incorrect.

When his full body was in the building, a wave of weird washed over him.

 _No, weird isn’t the word for it,_ he thought in the empty expanse of the living room, eyes scanning the untouched, lifeless furniture. Everything was completely bare except for a caramel colored glass bottle, sitting alone on the surface of the kitchen table. The air stank like cheap alcohol and dust, like an empty bar after sundown. Ambient and obnoxious tv static with no outward source drifted stiffly throughout the room, idle in the atmosphere, buzzing in his ears but impossibly silent at the same time. It felt like someone was pushing down on his chest, trying to snuff him out, to throw him unconscious with a drugged gag.

He swallowed uncomfortably, having found the fitting word. It fell out of his mouth unintentionally, like he’d forgotten how he’d learnt to keep it shut. “Bereavement.”

A man in mourning. 

The realization hit him once again, that he was, in the eyes of everyone else, _dead._ They’d had a funeral, buried him, bought him a gravestone and engraved his name into it. This didn’t feel like home anymore, for good reason. That feeling of home had been damaged that night, mutilated for everyone to see. It had taken his father’s son, the last thing he had- no, the _only_ thing he had to love. Stripped from him after months of worry, of incessant torment, after every precaution he’d taken to protect him. Renewed, Stiles completely disregarded the real reason he’d come here-- he desperately needed to see his dad, to tell him he was okay. It was selfish to hide the truth; he should’ve realized that simple fact beforehand, cut it out with the emo, brooding garbage and returned without hesitating. He couldn’t imagine how horrible he was feeling, blaming himself, probably. That’s what he did after the roof-- keeping his distance, the guilt-ridden gazes. Now, though, it must’ve been unbearable.

_It must’ve been mom all over again._

Wallowing in self-blame, Stiles moved like a ghost among empty structure of the house. He made his way upstairs and flashes of memories bombarded his eyes; the Nogitsune, its touch on his shoulder, his scream. The noises were just inches from reality. Down the hall, his name had been chanted in shrill, diverse tones, as his demon hit at the door and as his ears had bled, as the mirror shattered and fell to the floor. As he almost killed someone close to him with no hesitation, his hands slipping smoothy around his neck, a perfect fit. Finally, though, he managed reached his room. Inside he no longer saw his demon waiting for him, but remembered the words, the wonderful, astounding words that had almost changed every aspect of his life, and what had happened after those consequential words.

Somehow, that hurt worse than the bad memories.

His room felt better than downstairs had by a large margin. It was similarly untouched, but differently; not neglected but simply unused, like a phone set to charge. Not left to rot, just hidden away. Everything looked exactly the same as it had when he had first left on the 22nd of September.

At the thought of a date, Stiles perked up and the earlier mission to figure out what day it was popped into his head. He quickly spotted his laptop, haphazardly tucked away under a pile of old clothes. He pulled it out and habitually took a seat on the edge of his bed, flipping the screen up. He waited a few apprehensive seconds for it to turn on automatically like it normally did but received nothing for his efforts, which meant it too was dead.

Internally groaning, he stood and gathered his backpack in his arms, blindly digging in for the charger. He felt the smooth, cool surface of a book, and even some papers, but still no charger. Instead of returning victorious with a cord in hand, his fingertips met with the grainy bottom of his backpack, and then-

“God fucking- _shit!_ ” Stiles spat, ripping his hand out of the bag like he’d been bitten. Moments before, he had felt a sharp stab across the the palm of his left hand. Taken aback by this change of events, he erratically tried to remove his limbs from the messy backpack, only to feel another jab through some of his fingers before he could do anything against it. Now, blood dripped slowly from the cut along his palm, while the flesh of two of his fingers was in different places. Scared and pissed at the same time, he could only watched as a droplet of crimson made its way swiftly down his thumb, falling from his skin and onto the carpet below.

Frantically, he used his right hand to grab his bag and flipped it upside down, spilling its contents onto the floor. First, a biology textbook banged on the floor, then a few notebooks, some folders. Then, regrettably, the charger came, stuffed in between two folds of paper. Lastly came two familiar carving knives, ones he didn’t remember obtaining, stained with crusty, dried blood, disturbed around the edges.

Not even bothering to be surprised by his allegedly humorously shitty luck, Stiles swore under his breath and moved to collect the bandages he had hidden under his bed. They were cheap and frazzled, but they’d been his best friend, there for him whenever he needed, save for the times he’d had to buy new ones. And, luckily, he’d made that run to the drugstore only a week before he was brutally skewered by his friends in the woods.

“Of course there were knives in there. Of fucking course I had actual _knives_ in my backpack. Why wouldn’t I?” Stiles murmured to himself, unsteadily winding the coarse fabric around his hands, ripping off strips for his fingers. It was a quick, haphazardly done job, but good enough. He tossed the roll behind him before plucking the charger off the ground, not paying mind to the spatters of blood now soaking into the carpet, returning to the laptop.

He jammed it into the outlet, cringing at the pulsating stings emanating from palm. This time, finally plugged in, when the held the power button the screen burst to life, displaying the windows logo and the loading symbol. He sighed, fingers itching, not even sure finding out the date was worth it now.

Finally, when the device flipped onto the sign-in screen, displaying his name, his eyes went to the corner of the screen. He swallowed, worried, as his gaze raked over the current time - 7:13 - all the way to the month.

Shock lifted through his nerves, muscles tightening. It was December 23rd, 2018, which meant he’d crawled out of his own grave on the 22nd. Three exact months from when he’d died. That meant it was almost Christmas, but he hadn’t seen a tree in the house.

Closing the computer, another debilitating wave of guilt overtook the initial shock of the date. He flexed his fingers and set the device to the side, covering his face with his hands with a sigh. The bitter medicinal smell of the bandages rushed up his nose, along with the acrid tang of the blood, and he shook his head, realizing how fucking stupid he truly was. 

_Dying didn’t fix anything. It never would’ve._

As if to cement his point, he heard the door open downstairs, heard the whistle of the wind before it was abruptly quieted. The familiar stomp of his father’s boots reminded him that yes, on slow days, his dad would usually get done with work at around seven. He couldn’t take this any longer; he wanted to go home, to _stay_ home. He didn’t want to return to that stupid fucking puddle in the middle of the woods, freezing to death, if he could even die. He wanted to stay here where it was warm, to apologize to his dad, to plead for the permission to try to live again. To live right, to accept support from his only family, to assure him that he didn’t fail as a parent, that instead Stiles failed as a son.

_Bite the bullet,_ he told himself, standing from his perch on the bed. _Act like you haven’t been dead for two months and just open your mouth, talk like you used to._

He took a step forward, and then another, muddy shoes sinking into the carpet. He heard his father shuffling downstairs, removing his coat, setting down his keys. 

_You didn’t even lock the door,_ Stiles thought, a frown on his mind. _Why wouldn’t you lock the door?_ He approached the steps, hand curling around the railing, the last thing to hold him back. Hesitantly, he let go, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad?” He called, his voice loud and vehement, cutting through the static that had previously had its hold on the atmosphere. The silence that greeted him was frightening, grim; he felt his pulse pick up in speed, blood thumping louder passed his ears. After a moment, his hand was back gripping the railing, nervously needing something to hold. 

Stiles’s senses fell to a halt as his father entered his line of sight, staring shakenly at his son’s form at the top of the stairs. Now, faced with another person, his lips wouldn’t part. He just let his gaze focus on anywhere but his dad’s face, his fingers gripping the wooden railing tightly.

“You’re dead.” He stated, simply.

Dry humor bubbled up through his chest, and he laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he started, quiet. “That’s what I thought too.” He inhaled and released his grip, letting his hand travel lightly as he made his way down the stairs, stopping when he reached the bottom floor. His father rushed forward, and for the first time in so long, he was engulfed in a warm embrace. A breath he didn’t know he’d been holding escaped his throat and he leaned forward, burying his face into his dad’s shoulder. 

“But, you _died,_ ” the man still insisted, voice tearful and choked, hugging his son tighter. “That monster killed you. We _buried_ you.”

At those words, Stiles internally sighed, resisting the oppressive urge to show his growing emotion. That wouldn’t be fair. After all, he didn’t have anything to cry about. “I don’t understand it either,” he explained, shifting his weight and thinking back to the two kids in the graveyard. “I thought- I thought I was mauled by a bear, what happened to that?”

“That what the coroner said, but shouldn’t you know?”

Another laugh escaped his lips and he stepped backward, finally looking toward his dad, feeling like a knife had been stabbed into his chest at the man’s expression. 

_You did this to him._

He resisted the need to shake off the hands cupping his shoulders.

“I know what happened to me, and it wasn’t murder by the Beacon Hills killer, or an unfortunate animal attack in the woods,” he paused, the wrongness of his reality returning to him with a vengeance. “Dad, I’m just- I’m sorry. For everything.”

“But Stiles, you _died!!_ He left you-- left you on the floor. Dead. What other explanation is there?” 

Stiles ducked his head. He had a lot of explaining to do.

 

 

“I don’t know why I’m here, really. I just woke up, and I um, dug my way to the surface.”

The sheriff shuffled on the seat cushion beside him, running a hand down his face. “So this didn’t have anything to do with the Nogitsune?”

“Not that I’m aware. It never said that it could resurrect me, neither did Kira’s mom, who actually knows this stuff. Actually, it was really set on me not dying,” he jostled the laptop in his lap, letting his fingertips grace the touchpad as he scrolled through the wiki page. “There’s nothing in the folklore about it.”

“You think this could’ve been something else?”

Now it was Stiles’s turn to feel tired, leaning backwards and groaning, cursing the very real possibility of it being ‘something else’. “ _God,_ I hope not. I’ve had enough supernatural for a lifetime,” he clicked off the page, returning to the home screen. “I don’t need to deal with another crazy demon who brought me back and gave me murderous urges so I’ll be its personal attack dog.”

“Now, I don’t know much about the kind of stuff that’s been happening, but I know you can’t just come back to life on your own accord,” his father explained distastefully, crossing his arms with a shake of the head. “Maybe if we just don’t push it, and take this as a stroke of incredible luck, it’ll blow over.”

“Yeah, I could use some optimism right now. It takes a lot of willpower to not dwell on how--how _wrong_ this all is. How inhuman.”

_Am I even human anymore?_

“I don’t care about the details, Stiles. I only care that my son is alive,” the man announced, voice genuinely cheerful for what Stiles could assume was the first time in two months. “A real life Christmas miracle, huh?”

_A Christmas miracle._

Stiles cringed, but smiled nonetheless.


	3. Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were running to grow up every weekend; now we're watching the moments as they're leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long and its so short. Im going to start working on the fourth chapter quick after this. it probably won't be in stiles's pov though! this one is around 2400-2500 words and chapters I write are usually 6000+, so its a big let down for me. ill do more next time. anyways, enjoy, and feel free to correct any mistakes you find in the comments!
> 
> \- diss

The light of the moon casted across the living room floor, bright as the sun of a summer’s morning. Contradictory wintry air drifted in from the open window, the curtains blowing softly from the breeze. Stiles sat on the floor, his face against the wall, hair only skimming the bottom of the windowsill, listening tenaciously with his eyes shut, relaxed. A gray woolen blanket was draped over his huddled form, and it almost appeared he was sleeping, if not for his restless shifting dissimilar of a regular slumber. Almost fitfully, he moved his head in a cursory attempt to get a better view, if view spoke for the ears as well. He did this roughly once every month, settled next to an open window with the noises of the night amassing in the somber room, desperate to hear even a fleeting glimpse of his murderers’ howls. Maybe he’d hear the distant struggle of a full moon-induced fight, carried on the wind and into his home. He didn’t know why, but he hoped that if he heard or saw even a sliver of his friends, he’d sleep easier. It was a blind, fleeting yet determined hope, and it was all he had.

His dad was resolute on the subject of Stiles’s interactions, meaning he could not have any. He quite obviously couldn’t go to school, have a job, or any of that. Furthermore, he couldn’t leave the house without being dressed like a celebrity fleeing from the paparazzi, nor could he speak to anyone other than his father. It was a risk to even sit this close to a window, and Stiles knew that. He had come to terms with the fact that the normalcy of regular life was stripped from him. This, of course, was for the best -- doing anything else would cause numerous problems, numerous _dire_ problems that would, most likely, never go away. See, he was, to everyone, dead. He’d risen from the grave like a zombie. They labeled the disappearance of his corpse as a grave robbing, but that was mostly caused by the influence of his father. Otherwise, as any competent cop could tell, the gaping hole in the ground wasn’t an entrance by a shovel of some fuckin’ weirdo who steals kids’ corpses, no. It was an exit hole. The coffin had been broken open from the inside.

Somehow this information had gotten to the public, the sheriff admitted. Undead Stiles Stilinski who roamed the woods, gurgling blood from the slash in his neck was allegedly a burgeoning local legend amongst the youth of the town. Apparently, if you encounter him, he’ll either kill you like the ‘bear’ that killed him or curse you with terribly bad luck until the day you die. Some even said he’d been eternally enslaved by the elusive Identity serial killer. At the time, this made Stiles chuckle, a pinch of humor in a grievous situation. He’d said, sarcastically, “If only they knew.”

Still, this potent threat of being exposed weighed heavily on both their shoulders. Stiles longed to see his friends and live what life he had left, despite what’d happened. His dad was forced to lie to the police, to purposefully dispose of evidence that would otherwise indict his son. All of this wasn’t even scratching the surface of their problems, though. Stiles didn’t want to think of their new trips to the Eichen House.

Everyone there was suffering. They were all screaming, yet no one made a noise. The place brought back painful memories that tore at his heart like the claws that had killed him. Likewise, he’d quickly realized on their first stop that he was afraid of needles, or medication as a whole. Every nurse he saw, tottering around with their little carts covered with pills in colorful cups, plastered daunting images in his mind that only went away with time. Yet, he still followed his father, hiding his face, because they weren’t there for a pleasant little trip through memory lane, no. They were there because Stiles needed to feed.

Because Stiles wasn’t human. 

Because Stiles had inherited a terrible curse.

His condition was brought to light soon after New Years. He’d been taking down old Christmas decorations when a lingering fatigue he’d felt for the past few days began to fester like a virus. He had fallen off the stool he was perched on, limbs numb, feeling light-headed, even though he’d been forced to eat even meals ever since he returned. It wasn’t explicitly worrisome, especially compared to what’d he’d already been through, so they left it alone. This was before his muscles grew almost too weak to stand, and his skin paled to an unhealthy hue, however. Stiles was afraid death had caught up to him, that this was mother nature taking back what was her’s, but that was just his own paranoia. Terrified of another theory that seemed scarily plausible, he ventured into the front yard while his dad was at work, a big no-no and a slap in the face to everything they’d done to protect each other. He spotted a thin, winter-worn sparrow digging at the frosted dirt under a bush, and before he knew it, his hands were cuffing the fowl’s neck and blood was pouring over his palms. Like the crows at the Hale House, the mangling of this creature brought an intense wave of euphoria over his body and he gasped, a surprised breath falling from his lips. He dropped the bird and the sensation dulled, but still it sat, the energy spreading in a fine layer over his entire body.

At seven pm, his dad noticed he was faring much better, a far reach from how he’d been that morning. He understandably asked why. Stiles broke and told him everything, even showing him the body he’d buried, guilt ridden. After thorough, anxious explaining, Stiles got his reasoning across. The man understood enough to know that his son fed off well, as everyone’s heard it before: chaos, pain, and strife. He was sick of those three words.

Fast forward to the Eichen House. His dad pulled some strings and got them a visit, claiming visitation or something along those lines. It was simple. They’d visit a patient’s room, and Stiles would do what he had to do. Mentally tortured people were really something. It felt dangerous. It felt like an incredibly low move, taking advantage of those poor people in that horrible place, but it was only every other month, and there were enough birds and rodents in Beacon Hills to keep him happy and healthy for that period in between. But now, he hadn’t had anything for awhile and he ached for a refill. It was _disgusting,_ he knew that. He hated it, hated what it meant, but he was dealing with it. _They_ were dealing with it. That’s really all that mattered.

Stiles sighed, shaking his head against the wall. Being human was hard, especially around his type of friends, but this was even worse. He would do anything to go back, to not _have_ to deal with the fact that he was some kind of half-breed kitsune born from hate and violence. Really. In fact, he would do anything to just return to where it started, live happily for awhile only to kill himself before the Nogitsune even made its presence known. It was for the best-- if he had died, so many more people would be alive. Allison would be alive. Scott would be- he would be-

_What was that?_

Something was moving outside. With his heart in his throat and his eyelids opened, he adjusted his posture, peeking just an inch over the windowsill. The moon was bright and absolutely huge in the sky, the usual dark of the night dwarfed by the ghostly celestial glow. Even more apparent than the moon, subdued footsteps walked audibly through the cold grass, approaching the front door at the left side of the house, opposite to the window Stiles peered from. Bathed in light, it was easy to make out the face of the boy at the door, the soft brown eyes and crooked jaw.

“ _Scott?_ ” he breathed, the word coming out before the image of his best friend this close processed. His eyes widened as he realized what he’d done, as Scott’s head snapped to face his direction, gaze alert. He ducked down before their eyes could meet, staring wide-eyed at the floor and the blanket over his form. He put his hand over his mouth to quell his quickening breaths just as a gust of wind blew from outside, reminding him that _the window is open and all he has to do is look over to see you-_

Throwing the covers aside, he leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the stairs, footsteps light but not inaudible. The creak of the stairs was even worse, and his heart began to pound with anxiety, even as he rapped nervously on his father’s door. It wasn’t that late, but he’d gone to bed soon after getting home from work. 

“Dad,” he hissed, “Dad, you gotta get up-”

The door opened, revealing his dad still in his work clothes, hair mussed and stare confused. “What?” he questioned, voice tired but not annoyed. He tried to explain but was cut off by the creak of the floorboards from downstairs, his body stiffening as a horrible, no good realization tickled through his nerves: _he climbed in through the window._

“Oh no,” Stiles blurted. He grabbed his dad’s arm and, like a coward, moved behind the man. His entire body was laced with a childish fear he should not have been feeling, a fear that was so obnoxiously immature that almost turned itself on its head. Almost, yes, almost, for Stiles was still shaking like a young boy staring down a horribly open closet in the latest of nights, unable to push away the covers in order to shut it. Only able to stare dumbly at the echoing blackness of the space, the blackness harboring a devilish soul, a soul wishing to kill the child that sat unassumingly in bed.

Like any good parent, Noah Stilinski was there to combat these fears. Just not in the usual _there’s nothing in there to be afraid of, Stiles,_ way you’d expect. No, his way was much more realistic. It involved a gun. His service weapon was brandished from somewhere one could not notice; it just appeared, like a light in the darkness, like the shutting of a closet, locking a creature inside.

“In there,” the man ordered cautiously, pointing to the room he’d come out of only minutes ago. “Hide, anywhere. Go.”

Stiles did what was asked of him without hesitation, adrenaline fueling his movements as he shut the door, locking it with shaking hands. He flicked off the light and scanned the room, not familiar enough with its layout to quickly settle on anything. So, as one does, he stayed where he was, placing his ear against the door and listened intently, thankful for the thinness of the door. At first, there was a tense, unwavering silence, permeated only by Stiles’s heavy breathing, loud and present in his ears. Then, his dad’s voice, deep and nonchalant, ringing out in the atmosphere.

“Why are you here?” he glowered, his gruff voice muffled by the door. His father wasn’t the biggest fan of Scott McCall anymore, not since Stiles told him how he died-- or more accurate, how he’d been murdered, and who by, so the pleasantries were very much skipped.

“Sheriff-” Scott choked, probably at the sight of the gun, held tightly in his father’s hands. “There’s someone in your house, sir.”

“That’s none of your concern,” his dad snapped resentfully, “why did you come here?”

Silence, again, but no movement. They were both still standing where they were. Stiles swallowed, thickly, moving away from the door. That same fear amassed in his heart and he curled his arms around his middle, feeling the thick scar through the fabric of his shirt. It reminded him of how everything they’d built could crumble, and it made it worse. Water welled in his eyes and his breathing quickened. He was hyperventilating, he realized with dismay. He was hyperventilating over something he thought he’d wanted.

_I want to go back to normal, but that’s never going to be possible, is it?_

_Normal doesn’t exist for me anymore. Not without hurting people I love, and I can’t do that again._

“I was gonna tell you that someone defiled Stiles’s grave,” the boy admitted slowly, his voice becoming timid and unsure. “Whoever did it just.. broke the tombstone. Like a spit in the face after his- his body was s-stolen.” Scott shuffled, the floorboards creaking under his feet. “But then I saw- there was someone by your window. I think he said my name and I thought the worst.”

_Someone defiled your grave._

“Everything’s under control,” his dad murmured, threatening voice gone in a wisp. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“Sir, but-”

“Don’t come back here, Scott,” Stiles felt his chest loosening, the prospect of not having to feel so trapped like this again a relief. “If you need to talk, meet me someplace. Just never come back to this house.”

Stiles waited. He waited, but he didn’t hear anything. His trembling ceased and his breathing leveled out, and the world stopped shaking, the timer on his metaphorical bomb stopping before the explosion. The crisis was over, and he could maybe go to sleep now, with every door and window in the house locked and checked twice. This was, of course, before Scott opened his mouth one last time.

“Derek wanted me to give these to you,” Stiles listened with wide eyes, the name like a gunshot in his head. “He was gonna put them by his grave, but um, you know the rest.”

He stood completely still until he heard the window shut from downstairs, until his father opened the door and found the mess of his son, his cheeks wet and hands hugging his torso in a vague attempt to feel comforted. Because even though he had calmed, even though the disaster was avoided, the sight of the beautiful Stargazer Lilies in his father’s hands were enough to toss him carelessly over the edge.

The flowers did end up someplace, after he fell to his knees and cried in his dad’s arms until he drifted off. They were placed in a vase in Stiles’s room, sitting on a chair near the window, staring up at the night sky like someone did a lifetime before. A tribute to a memory he would never willingly retrieve, too frightened to venture back to when times were good.


End file.
